


Turn It Into Honesty

by mahons_ondine



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur of many talents, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Sometimes Arthur’s a jerk, but Eames likes him anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahons_ondine/pseuds/mahons_ondine
Summary: Secrets, secrets are no fun, unless you tell everyone, said no one ever.





	Turn It Into Honesty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madbrilliant84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madbrilliant84/gifts).



> For madbrilliant84 who gave me a prompt that I found surprisingly difficult, but ultimately a lot of fun. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

It begins, as many such things begin, with a job. It hardly matters what the job is. Honestly they all sort of run together, you know? And Arthur and Eames couldn't be arsed to tell you what the job was actually about, these days, and it changed their lives! Suffice it to say, it was a job like any other job.  Eames was forging a woman; again, nothing exciting in that piece of the puzzle. No, the interesting bit was the mark--a dancer of the exotic variety--and the forge--another dancer.

Eames claims that he's forged a dancer before, 'at least a dozen times, darling, keep your exceedingly tight trousers on, or perhaps don't.' 

Arthur doesn't know if he believes him or not, but frankly it hardly matters.  On the day of their dress rehearsal, one thing is very clear: he's never had to be a woman, for a woman, at least not one putting on a full face of makeup.

Arthur stops the whole proceedings about 30 seconds in, and Eames would have already blown their cover sky high.  (This is, of course, why Arthur insists on these dry runs, no matter how many times his colleagues whine and complain that they're professionals and don't need to practice.  Obviously they do.)

“You look like a toddler who got into mommy’s makeup and decided to paint his face!” 

“Please, it’s not all that bad,” Eames scoffs, looking to Ariadne for support. 

She sucks her teeth, shrugging, but declines to comment. 

“Well fine then! How should I know? I normally forge the lipstick right onto my face! I can’t be expected to be good at /everything/, Arthur, darling. It isn’t as though you’d do any better.” 

Arthur smirks, swiping the lipstick from Eames' hand, and proceeds to prove Eames wrong in a few deft movements. Arthur slides the lipstick across his bottom lip, coating it cherry red, then traces his cupids bow, carefully filling in the center of his top lip, before finishing off his feat with a quick pair of red slashes.  

"Easy as pie," Arthur says with a pop.  "Show him the ropes, Ariadne." 

Arthur winks at Eames, pulling a pistol from his inner coat pocket, and sliding the muzzle into his mouth, a bright red O around the cool metal, and shoots himself in the head.  

"Well," Ariadne eventually manages. "I'm not sure what just happened, or why Arthur seems to think I have any idea how to properly put on makeup, but he is both wrong and insulting. That is some anti-feminist bullshit."  

"I'll just check the youtubes, then? That's what you kids do these days?"  Eames offers. 

"Eames, you're 6 years older than I am."  

Eames preens, reaching for his own gun.  "Five years, four months.  Don't age me prematurely, Ariadne my dear."

 

When Eames and Ariadne emerge, Arthur is sitting calmly at his desk, a slight flush creeping up his neck, the only evidence that anything out of the normal occurred. 

Eames strolls over to him and drapes himself across Arthur’s desk. 

“I had no idea we had an amateur makeup artist in our midst, my sweet.” 

“I am a man of many talents, Mr. Eames. It seems you are somewhat lacking. Perhaps you should consider getting to work,” Arthur says dismissively, turning back to his work. 

“But Pet, I’m just dying to know how you acquired such a skill. Can you do other types of makeup? Eyeliner? Blush?” 

Arthur grits his teeth, the color rising from his neck to stain his cheeks, but he continues to work. 

“Hmm, perhaps not blush. I don’t think you need it. Ah well,” Eames says lightly, hopping to the ground. “I’ll figure it out soon enough.” 

~~~~~~

Arthur assumes that Eames will forget all about it. Frankly it’s a pretty silly assumption on Arthur’s part, seeing as how Eames is a bloodhound when it comes to gossip, and how he’s chased down far less juicy tidbits with the ferocity of a mama cat providing for her young. 

When Arthur figures out that Eames won’t forget about it, he hopes that perhaps Eames will tire of the search, and find something more fascinating to spend his time on. But apparently Eames can’t find anything more fascinating than Arthur, and if he’s being honest, it’s actually pretty much as flattering as it is annoying. Not that Arthur would ever tell him that. No, Arthur just says no, and tosses a few choice eye rolls in Eames’ direction. 

Mostly it goes like this: 

 

“Secret past as a actor, darling?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

 

“We’re you born a woman, Pet? I don’t judge. Whatever’s in your pants or isn’t, I’m definitely in.” 

“It’s nice to hear you’re an equal opportunity letch, but no.” 

 

“Children’s face painter?” 

“Henna tattoo artist?” 

“Traveling circus clown?” 

“Stationary circus clown?” 

 

“....”

 

“If you don’t fess up, darling, I might have to ask one of my buddies to do a little bit of digging! See what they can turn up!” 

 

And Arthur’s blood runs cold. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Eames. If he took the time to really think about it, Arthur would say that if he had to choose someone to trust, not only with his own safety, but his family’s safety, Eames is probably his first choice. Eames’ friends? Absolutely not. But the man himself? Arthur’s pretty sure Eames would suffer torture and worse to /protect/ Arthur.  And in light of this, well, Arthur isn’t completely sure why this silly, casual, fake threat makes him snap, but it does. 

Later he tells himself he was worried about the fallout from the job they’d just finished. Eames suggests that Arthur was broken up about missing Eames. And Ariadne deadpans that it’s probably all the tension he always has from having a stick up his ass and no one to blow him.  Maybe they’re all a little right. 

 

It doesn’t matter, honestly.  Arthur snaps and there’s no excuse for it. 

“Fine,” he snarls. “Do you want to know how I know?” 

 

Eames perks up like a puppy whose found a long buried bone, and it makes Arthur even more frustrated. 

“I learned,” Arthur spits out, “from my mother. She had Parkinson’s, and she couldn’t do her makeup anymore.” Arthur grins in grim satisfaction at how his words slice into Eames like tiny razors. He does love to win.

“I practiced on myself until I could do it just right so that she could still feel pretty.” 

The shocked silence that follows is marvelous, only surpassed by the gravel in Eames' voice when he does speak.  

“Oh Arthur. Petal, I had no idea. None of your background checks showed anything like this. I didn’t know!” 

 

Arthur snorts, face breaking into a grin. 

“Of course you didn’t. You didn’t actually think that was true? Gosh Mr. Eames! You’re terrifically gullible.” Arthur chortles, laugh ringing out in a deadly silent room. 

 

When he finally gets his mirth under control Eames is staring at him with something Arthur had never seen in his eyes before—hurt.  Arthur stops laughing. 

“I had no idea you liked me so little. Trusted me so little, that you would make a joke about something like that to me. We’re colleagues, Arthur, and I thought maybe we had become friends. Clearly I was wrong.” 

Eames turns on his heel and he leaves. Shutting the door quietly, but firmly behind him. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~

“Shit, that was stupid.” 

“Mmm I’d say so,” Ariadne pipes up from the corner of the room. 

“Dammit, I forgot you were here.” 

“Heh,” she shrugs. “People are always forgetting about me with these types of things. I’m used to it at this point—“ 

 

Arthur nods at her distractedly and wanders away, already plotting how to fix the situation with Eames. 

It seems there is only one thing to do.  Show him. Debase himself, let Eames have a little laugh at his expense and restore the balance of their friendship. Arthur is not looking forward to it, but he puts in a call to his mother, who decidedly does not have Parkinson’s, and asks her to overnight him a few of his old supplies. Best to suck it up and get it over with now before it festers. 

And that is how Arthur finds himself knocking on Eames' door two days later. 

He would have done it right then and there the very next day, but Eames had fled Chicago in favor of jolly old England, seeking out, Arthur thinks, a little bit of comfort in the face of, well, him. 

Eames answers the door in his pants, because of course he does. (Not his pants pants, his British pants; his tight, American flag themed pants.) So Arthur has to do a double take. Meanwhile Eames is doing a double take of his own, and they’re both generally just staring at one another completely gobsmacked and totally unable to voice their mutual surprise. 

 

Arthur regains some semblance of conscious thought first. 

“This?” He mumbles. “It’s what I was going to tell you. About how I know to do this kind of stuff,” Arthur gestures vaguely at his face. 

 

Eames just stares at him as Arthur cocks a perfectly stenciled eyebrow over a dark rimmed eye, and purses his very black lips. 

 

“It was a long time ago. High school, okay? Am I forgiven now?” 

 

Finally, after what seems like a millennia, but is probably closer to ten seconds, Eames giggles. 

 

“You were a baby goth!” 

 

Arthur reddens and turns to leave, but Eames catches him by his emo Avril Lavigne inspired tie and pulls him in, shutting the door behind him. 

 

“Now I didn’t say I didn’t like it, darling—“

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, the title is from the Avril song “Complicated”. Baby emo goth Arthur approves.


End file.
